


But you can have me

by When_Tommy_Met_Alfie



Series: When Tommy met Alfie AU [32]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, And people taking care of people who are sick, Flowers!, Fluff and Angst, Heaps of fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, M/M, People being sick, They're also in bed for... well at least 67 percent of the time, Tommy wears Alfie's clothes for... the majority of this fic, those are in there as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 05:16:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18934213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie/pseuds/When_Tommy_Met_Alfie
Summary: Five times Alfie told Tommy that he loved him. One time Tommy said it first.





	But you can have me

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I wrote a Thing! (the writer's block have been real and of the 'everything I write is shit'-variety, but I'm nothing if not stubborn so now there's Thing) 
> 
> I'll be brief because my eyes are burning from editing this: In response to a few requests from tumblr -mainly the 5+1 thing but also some for fluff, gift giving, and Tommy wearing Alfie's clothes. I hope you'll enjoy it despite... well it's very much my usual schtick so nothing you haven't seen before!

It’s something rare and precious, to have Tommy Shelby love you. That much Alfie realizes. Because he’s terrified to love, which in and of its own is terrible and sometimes Alfie wishes that he could… burn the entire fucking world for making him so afraid. And not only that, but he’s got this idea that he’s not worthy of someone else’s love either. These are things that Tommy would probably rather die than admitting out loud, but Alfie knows. He sees.

So that first time, when he tells Tommy that he loves him, he’s absolutely stunned when he says it back. And not only says it back but actually means it. Alfie can see it in his eyes, because there’s a spark of absolute terror there. So yeah, he means it. Right then, it feels like Tommy gives him a tiny piece of his heart, and Alfie is just doing everything he can not to break it. And slowly, he gets more pieces. He can always tell when it happens, because it’s in those rare moments when Tommy looks insecure. He gets more pieces, and he is equally gentle with all of them. To the best of his abilities.

Alfie tells Tommy that he loves him as often as he can manage. Partly because life is short and you never fucking know when it’s going to end. But most of all, it’s just because he _does_ love him, and he’s never been one to not speak his mind.

Sometimes Tommy says it back.

Sometimes he just smiles.

Sometimes, on bad days, he looks away.

And he never says it first.

Alfie doesn’t mind- Tommy loves him, and if Alfie  has to be the first to say those words out loud each time, that’s fine. The problem is that he suspects -no, is absolutely convinced- that Tommy never says it first because he’s terrified that Alfie won’t say it back. Again, nothing that Tommy has ever admitted out loud. Just another one of those things that Alfie knows.

 And that, he can’t have.

Not much to do, though, except taking care of all those pieces and hope that eventually, Tommy won’t be so afraid anymore.

 

_-One-_

Tommy is still in bed when Alfie wakes up, a rare occurrence on weekdays. He’s usually down in the kitchen, on that spot on the counter -the best place to sit in the entire house, apparently- smoking and making no efforts what so ever at making breakfast. But more often than not these days, Tommy will have made tea by the time Alfie gets down there. A solid arrangement, that -Tommy makes tea while Alfie takes care of the food.

But not today. Today, Alfie opens his eyes, blinks to clear them from sleepy gravel, and finds Tommy curled up into a ball right next to him on the mattress. He smiles and inches forward, running a hand over his back as he leans in and kisses his forehead lightly. As expected, Tommy opens his eyes a fraction, but closes them again just as quickly

“Morning, sleeping beauty.” Alfie pulls him into a hug, enjoying the feeling of Tommy’s body, relaxed and warm from sleep, in his arms. Tommy lets out an incoherent hum and makes no effort to move or speak any actual words, but Alfie is just as happy to just continue holding him, placing occasional kisses on different spots of his face. Like his freckled cheek. Or the tip of his nose. Or those pouty lips. Alfie has plenty of spots to kiss.

After a few more minutes of this, however, it becomes clear  that Tommy isn’t planning to move anytime soon.  

“Fine then, suppose I’ll take care of breakfast, as usual,” Alfie says, kisses his forehead, and climbs out of bed. “Which I’m more than happy to do, mind you. Since I’m such an exemplary specimen of a man…”

Tommy remains quiet under the duvet.

Alfie goes downstairs to make breakfast, whistling a bit to himself as he pours water into the kettle and puts it on the stove. It’s good that Tommy stays in bed for a bit, as strange as it feels. Things have been moving a bit too fast for Alfie’s liking these past few weeks, in this never ending cycle of tasks that need to get done. They’ve both been working long hours, but as a rule, if Alfie works long hours, Tommy works even longer. So, yeah, it’s good that Tommy for some unfathomable reason has decided to sleep in today.

But when the tea is ready and the eggs are in the pan, Tommy still hasn’t showed up in the kitchen. And at that point, Alfie goes up to the bedroom to investigate.

Tommy is sitting on the edge of the bed, back turned against the door.

“Haven’t gotten further than that, have you?” Alfie says. “And here I thought you were the punctual one out of the two of us. Always nagging me for trying to capitalize on the time I get to spend in this bed with you by-“ he cuts himself off, because Tommy isn’t responding. Isn’t moving at all or even acknowledging his presence.

“Tommy?” He walks around the bed and puts himself in his line of sight. Tommy glances up, but his gazes shifts to the floor again, as if it’s too… heavy, to even lift. A surge of worry stabs at the pit of his stomach.

“Are you sick?” he asks, reaching to put a hand on his forehead. The skin feels cool and smooth underneath his palm.

“No.”

Alfie runs the palm down to cup Tommy’s cheek. Strokes the dark circles underneath his eyes gently with his thumb.

“You didn’t sleep well,” he states.

Tommy doesn’t answer. His chest rises, as if drawing in breath for a sigh, but no air comes out. Sometimes, a sigh can be completely silent and just hang in the air instead.

Alfie sinks down onto the mattress next to Tommy.

“Maybe we should stay home today? Just rest for a bit. Things have been a bit hectic lately, I reckon. We could both use a break.”

Tommy shakes his head but makes no effort at all to move.

“We should… go to the office. There’s a delivery coming at eleven,” he says and Alfie curses silently. Of course Tommy remembered that. Tommy always remembers.

“Fuck it, they can deal with that on their own.”

“You know they can’t,” Tommy says without a hint of a smile. He rubs a hand over his face. Then he says something that nearly physically knocks Alfie from the bed, “I think I’m… I’m just going to sleep for a while. I’ll come in a bit later.”

Alfie watches in stunned silence as he crawls back under the covers and draws his knees up to his chest. The worry has turned from a quick surge to a heavy lump now.

“I’ll stay here with you.”

“No. Go. I’ll be there in an hour. Is that okay?”

“Of course, yeah, reckon you’ve put in enough time to last a lifetime,” Alfie says and everything feels absolutely surreal.

Afterwards, he thinks that it may be a selfish instinct, deciding to go to the office anyway. Because he can’t bring himself to pace around the house, worrying about whatever is going on with Tommy today. Better then to distract himself with work.

He brings Tommy a cup of tea, and a slice of toast that he cuts up into small pieces. An ingrained habit that is solely reserved for when Tommy isn’t feeling well. After some hesitation he puts Tommy’s cigarettes there on the tray, and his lighter. 

“Try to eat something, love,” he says when he puts the tray on the nightstand. Knowing full well that he won’t. Then he checks again to make sure he doesn’t have a fever, and Tommy doesn’t even supply with some annoyed comment about him fussing and that does nothing to calm him down.

Then he goes to the office.

The following hours he’s so wrapped up in everything that goes on there- his employees do have a tendency to keep him busy with their utter fucking incompetence, so for a while, he forgets to think about Tommy every single moment. And suddenly it’s afternoon, and the sun is shining in through a dirty windowpane in his office, hanging low in the sky. He sinks down behind his desk, and that’s when he finally realizes that Tommy never showed up. He stares at the empty chair behind his desk, where the papers are stacked as neatly as ever in meticulous order. And he decides that it’s time to go home right this second, to hell with everything else.

Leaving Ollie and Eli in charge, he decides that if the bakery burns down, it’s fate, and drives home.

He expects to find Tommy in the drawing room. Or possibly the living room. Anywhere downstairs really. Thinks that he probably just needed some time to brood over some thing or another, and that he’ll be hunched over a pile of papers with a cigarette by now.

But instead, he finds him in bed.

It’s way past noon and Tommy is still in bed. The cup of tea sits untouched on the nightstand, and the ashtray is empty. Leaving him alone the entire day was most likely a mistake, Alfie now realizes.

His back is turned against the door, and he doesn’t move when Alfie sits down.

“I’m home,” he says. As if that’s necessary to point out. “Did you get any sleep?”

Tommy doesn’t respond.

“Are you sure you’re not sick?”

“I’m fine.”

“Well you’re definitely not _fine_ , because as far as I can see, you’ve been here in bed all day and that’s definitely not fucking fine.”

The room fills with that heavy kind of silence that weighs down on his shoulders. For a while he just sits there, uselessly, watching the steady but slight rise of the duvet as Tommy breathes. When several minutes have passed, he decides that doing… something, anything, will be better than doing nothing at all, so he shrugs out of his waistcoat, lies down behind Tommy on the bed and hugs him tightly. At first, Tommy tenses up, becoming stiff as a board in his arms. But then he slowly begins to relax. Alfie can pull him a bit closer then, until he’s snug against his chest and he buries his nose in his hair. Tommy’s feet are cold. His hands too. In fact Tommy’s entire body seems to run a few degrees colder than Alfie’s, always. He breathes warm air against the back of his neck. Wraps his hands around his wrists and rubs them gently.

Outside the window, the sun is setting, shining soft light in through the window.

“Talk to me, love,” Alfie whispers and hopes it doesn’t sound as much as a plea as it actually is. “Did something happen? Something I don’t know about?”

Tommy shakes his head.

Silence. A car passes by outside. Alfie listens to the sound disappear in the distance. The city outside seems unusually quiet today.

“I don’t know what’s wrong I just- Things are just… bad today,” Tommy finally whispers. He draws a shaky breath. Alfie pulls him closer. Not much else he can do, when things are like this. Bad. Tommy might not understand it himself, but Alfie does. It’s the same kind of bad that makes him work endless hours at the betting shop, going through piles of paperwork and smoking just to keep his head and hands busy. Same kind that makes him go all quiet and close himself off, so that Alfie has to reach across fucking oceans just to get to him.

This is just a new way for it to manifest.

Tommy’s hands have gone a bit warmer. Alfie fits his palms over the back of them. Holds them and pulls them against his chest.

“I love you,” he whispers. Just that.

Tommy’s ribcage rises under his hand and he waits for the inevitable question: why? It’s the usual response on days like this. Alfie always answers, of course. Doesn’t mind listing the reasons over and over again and he’s done it a thousand times and he’ll do it a thousand fucking times more.

But this time, Tommy just releases the air into a long breath. Then he rolls over to face Alfie, and when Alfie pulls him close to his chest, that last bit of tension finally drains from his body, leaving him relaxed in his arms.

He doesn’t ask.

He just let’s Alfie hold him.

 

_-Two-_

“Good morning to the man of my dreams!” Alfie makes sure that the exclamation is loud enough to wake Tommy up -though that really is no hard feat considering he’s a light sleeper at best.

And sure enough, the long eyelashes flutter and Tommy peers up at him as he walks up to the bed, sets the tray down on the nightstand and seats himself on the edge of the mattress. He kisses Tommy’s cheek, soft and warm from sleep.

“Morning,” Tommy mutters and blinks a few times. His gaze first lands on the roses on the nightstand. This is a particularly large bouquet, and the flowers spill over the edge of the vase into a huge cloud of red petals. As always, Tommy’s eyes sparkle when he looks at them. And as always, he tries to hide it.

Tommy would deny it to his dying breath, but he loves it when Alfie gives him flowers. Alfie could see it the very first time he bought him some. Back then it had felt strange and bordering on absurd; surely they’re not the kind of fucking couple who buy each other flowers? But then he passed that flowershop on some godforsaken street on his way to Tommy’s house, and after spending a solid minute just marveling at the fact that there’s a fucking flowershop in fucking Birmingham, the urge to just… buy some for Tommy hit him for some inexplicable reason. Maybe because he never thought he’d have someone to buy flowers for, and the suddenly he did. And whether that person actually wanted to receive the flowers or not seemed less important.

So, he showed up at Watery Lane with roses -which for some reason felt like the best choice- and extended the bouquet to Tommy when he opened the door. And Tommy didn’t laugh or come with some snide remark -both were reactions that Alfie was prepared for. Instead he just blinked in surprise.

“Are these for me?” he asked after a while. _Are these for me?_ As if Alfie would show up with flowers for someone else at his fucking doorstep. Which Alfie had to point out before Tommy finally accepted the flowers, taking them in both hands and holding them carefully, as if they were made out of glass. The ‘thank you’ was so quiet that Alfie just barely caught it. And for a short, surreal little moment the indifferent veneer just washed away and Tommy looked heartbreakingly insecure

And he suddenly realized that it’s likely no one had ever bought flowers for Tommy. And that Tommy probably didn’t expect to ever receive any, either.  

So after that, he’s continued to buy flowers for any and all occasions. Tommy mutters about it sometimes; tells him it’s not necessary because flowers really serve no purpose. But he blushes prettily every time.

This time is no exception, and Alfie is as delighted as always to be privy to such a sight.

“What’s the occasion?” Tommy asks and looks at the huge bouquet with bright and happy eyes.

“Oh, absolutely none at all.” Alfie shrugs. “Other than it being yet another day which I get to spend in your presence, love.” 

Tommy rolls his eyes. “You’re fucking impossible.” He laughs and props himself up on his elbows, meeting Alfie halfway when he leans down to kiss him. He tries to keep it chaste, but Tommy hungrily deepens the kiss, eagerly pulling him closer.

“The tea will get cold,” Alfie points out, but willingly settles on top of him when Tommy spreads his legs.

“The tea can wait,” Tommy mutters against his lips. Tugs him closer and hooks one of his legs around his waist. He smiles up at Alfie. “If we’re quick about it, it’ll still be warm afterwards.”

And who is Alfie to turn him down when he makes such a reasonable and excellent point? 

The tea is miraculously still warm afterwards, despite Alfie making sure Tommy is taken very good care of, in several positions -because he’s nothing if not thorough. Good quality pot, he points out when he pours them both a cup. Tommy just responds with a hum as he lies there on the mattress, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. It’s a very nice view to have while he drinks his tea.

After a little while, Tommy rolls over onto his side, and Alfie catches him looking at the roses on the nightstand. But he pretends that he hasn’t noticed. Because Tommy has this _look_ on his face; this dreamy, happy little smile coupled with eyes that seem to sparkle. And Alfie is entirely sure that if he’s made aware of it, the look will fade and he’ll never get to see it again.

“It’s getting to be pretty expensive, this,” Tommy mumbles and reaches out to carefully run his finger along one of the petals. He glances quickly at Alfie, tucking his hand back under his chin. “You really don’t have to, you know. I don’t need… all this.”

Alfie isn’t sure if he’s just referring to the roses, but his heart clenches painfully none the less. 

“One of these days, I’m going to plant you an entire rose garden,” he says. “Just… rows and rows of rose bushes. And our house will just be overflowing with them.” He pauses, and adds as an afterthought. “Did you know that there’s this whole system with flowers, yeah? Where different numbers and colours and what not mean different things?”

“I had no idea.” Tommy smiles and it’s not clear whether he actually doesn’t know or if he’s just indulging Alfie. Alfie decides to explain none the less.

“White roses are all about… chastity and purity you know.” He runs his fingers through Tommy’s hair and Tommy closes his eyes. “A single red rose is something along the lines of ‘you’re the one’ and then twelve of‘em means ‘be mine’ or ‘I love you’, depending on who you ask I reckon”

“Mhm, and how many is this?” 

“Think it’s about… fifty,” Alfie answers and very much enjoys the way Tommy’s eyes snap open and widen into a look of poorly concealed horror.

“And what does fifty roses mean then?” he asks, quickly straightening his features. Alfie sets his teacup down so that he can wrap both arms around Tommy and pull him close.

“Oh, just that I love you more than… all the flowers in the entire world could say.”

Tommy blushes in such a deep shade of red that he’s beginning to look like one of the roses and promptly squirms out of his arms to hide his face in a pillow.

“You just say things like that to torment me,” he accuses from within the feathery depth. Alfie chuckles fondly and settles behind him, deciding to let him hide in there for as long as he’d like. 

 “Sure I do, love.”

_-_ _Three-_

When Alfie steps into the hallway at Watery Lane, he is greeted by a surprised Tommy. Who almost walks straight into him on his way towards the door. Alfie’s heart skips a beat. Tends to do things like that, when he’s been away for a few days and finally gets to see him again.

Before Tommy can protest or say anything in greeting, Alfie slides a hand to the small of his back, pulls him close and kisses him. Tommy lets out a muffled yelp in surprise, but then kisses him back. Alfie drops his suitcase unceremoniously on the floor and wraps the other arm around him too, but when he tugs him yet a bit closer, Tommy winces. And whines in pain. It’s quiet and he quickly stifles it, but it’s enough to  abruptly pull Alfie out of his pleasant haze. When he opens his eyes and takes a step back, he just catches Tommy clutch at his left arm before he manages to straighten his features again.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Tommy says, way to quickly and completely unconvincing. His eyes dart towards the door. “I was just on my way out, so I-“

Instantly suspicious, Alfie reaches for his arm but Tommy snatches it away, taking a step back. Alfie follows, pinning him with his most stern look.

“What’s with your arm?” He tries to grab it again but Tommy shrinks away from him like a spooked animal, clutching it to his chest protectively. Somehow, it’s not until now Alfie discovers the bruises. There’s one on his neck, right below his jaw. A scrape above his collar. And underneath the cuff of his left sleeve, a bandage is peaking out.

“Tommy…” Alfie folds his arms over his chest. Tommy glares.

“I hurt it when I was helping Uncle Charlie with something in the yard,” he mutters. Alfie raises both eyebrows and stares him down.   
“Go on.”

“The shutter to the hayloft was broken, I climbed up there to fix it, one of the floorboards broke and I fell.”

“And this was _your_ job because…”  Alfie gestures for Tommy to fill him in and gets a halfhearted shrug in response.

“Everyone else had left for the day and it was either me or him,” he then says. 

“It didn’t fucking occur to you to wait?” he asks sharply. “I know that you can’t fucking let anyone else do their job without interfering, but honestly that’s only half the fucking issue here-” He tries really hard not to raise his voice, but that proves near impossible. “The other half is that we’ve had multiple bloody conversations this past week, right, and you didn’t bother telling me that your fucking arm is broken. I do remember even _asking_ you if everything was alright.”

“It’s not broken. Doctor says it’s just a crack in the bone,” Tommy says dismissively, and then heads for the door. He holds himself differently, Alfie notices now. Gingerly, as if simply standing up hurts. Alfie reaches out to grab his arm but stops himself in the last second, letting the hand fall to his side. He opts for walking around Tommy and blocking his way again instead.

“Where do you think you’re fucking going?”

“The stables,” Tommy answers simply. “We have a new horse.”

“You’re not going anywhere in this state.”

“Don’t bother,” Ada mutters as she passes the hallway on her way to the kitchen. “Everyone’s been trying to get him to stay in bed. It’s no fucking use.”

Yeah Alfie is well aware of that. Doesn’t mean he’s not going to try, though.

“We’ve been over this fucking time and time again,” he snaps at Tommy. “You’ve got to stop treating your body like some disposable fucking thing that you can just… use until it completely breaks. You’ve only got one.”

Tommy squares his jaw and scowls at him.

“Go on, leave him be. Nothing to do about the pigheaded men in this family!” Esme calls from the kitchen. “Come in here and help me with dinner instead.”

While Alfie have been busy listening to Esme, Tommy has ceased the opportunity and slipped out the door.

Spouting a long string of the worst curse words he knows, he tugs his coat off and goes to the kitchen. Hopefully whatever Esme is up to will be enough of a distraction to take his mind off Tommy and his idiotic ideas for a few hours.

Tommy actually shows up for dinner. And despite only greeting Alfie with a sour look, he even sits in his usual spot next to him, quietly and very slowly getting through his meagre portion - _and really, would it fucking kill him to eat a normal amount of food?-_ using only one hand. Which turns the whole thing into an even longer affair than usual. For a brief moment Alfie considers offering to cut the food for him, but that would no doubt end with his hand skewered on Tommy’s fork.

The tension between them is so thick that you could cut it with a knife, something the rest of the family tries very hard to ignore.

And really, he reasons, Tommy is the one at fault here. Alfie should give him the exact same treatment and silently brood until the end of fucking time, because that’s how long this will go on for. Tommy rarely is the first to apologize. But the truth is, he’s fucking missed him. And he’s not in the mood to fight. Better then to just swallow his pride. So after a few minutes of tense silence, he reaches under the table and puts a hand experimentally on Tommy’s thigh. Tommy doesn’t move his leg away. And after a few more minutes, a hand comes to rest on Alfie’s just briefly, squeezing gently.

The rest of the meal is considerably nicer.

After dinner, Tommy excuses himself, and quietly slips upstairs. When Alfie comes into the bedroom, he’s already in bed, hidden far underneath the covers. Alfie chooses not to comment on the early hour, or ask why Tommy has suddenly decided that now would be a good time to sleep. Instead he strips down to his underclothes and slips into bed next to him

Tommy’s left arm is wrapped tightly in gauze. He gently runs a finger along it, featherlight, barely touching.

“You in a lot of pain, love?” 

“It’s fine,” Tommy replies softly.

He turns on his side and shifts a little closer. Alfie carefully wraps his arms around him. It’s more familiar than it should be, this, gingerly holding Tommy to avoid various injuries. Alfie is overwhelmed by another just as familiar feeling: of wanting to lock him up somewhere, just to keep him safe. Or at least take him away from all of this. Far away. And he knows that it’s completely impossible, but it’s a nice little fantasy, still. For now, he has to settle for listening to Tommy’s steady, quiet breaths.

 His last coherent thought before he falls asleep is wondering if it’s not common practice to put a cast over cracked bones. But he decides to ask Tommy about it tomorrow.

Alfie wakes up from the sensation of fire against his skin. At least that’s what it feels like in his sleep. Charred, glowing coals that sear the skin on his chest and neck. The fire licks his arms too, so he struggles to get away from it, his muscles feeling sluggish and weak. The coal feels oddly soft, not at all like brittle wood- But it’s too warm, so he shoves it as far away as he can manage-

Someone whimpers. A quiet, heartbreaking sound that he immediately recognizes, and it prompts him to open his eyes.

“Tommy?” Alfie reaches for the bedside lamp and warm light flickers to life. Thankfully he hasn’t shoved Tommy entirely out of the bed, just to the opposite side of the mattress. He lies there, sprawled on his back, breathing ragged and mouth hanging open. His face is pale save for the bright red flush on his cheeks and sweat is beading on his forehead. Suddenly Alfie is wide awake.

“Fuckin'ell,” he mutters and sits up. He brushes Tommy’s sweaty hair away from his forehead, flinching at the heat radiating from his skin. “Tommy, hey, wake up for me, will you?”

Tommy remains completely unresponsive and he pulls the duvet away. His shirt is clinging to his body, soaked with sweat, and he’s clutching the injured arm against his chest. The undershirt has bunched up around his elbow, and Alfie grimaces when he sees the gauze, soaked through with blood and puss. Things that definitely shouldn’t be leaking from a cracked bone. Alfie curses, and when he shakes Tommy he finally opens his eyes. They’re bright and glazed with fever, not completely meeting Alfie’s.

“You have a fever,” he tells him. “Guessing it has something to do with the state your arm is in.”

Tommy whimpers again and tries to pull away when he grabs his wrist.

“Hold still,” he grunts and fumbles with the gauze. “What have you done to yourself, eh? Silly boy.” Tommy squeezes his eyes shut and he focuses on unwrapping the arm. The heat is absolutely radiating from it, increasing the further he gets through the layers of gauze. When he gingerly removes the last bit, Tommy winces. Alfie does too. Impossible not to.

“For fucks sake, Tommy…”

There’s a cut across Tommy’s forearm. A deep gash with red, inflamed edges, leaking blood and crusted with other vile substances.

“Did you snag it on something when you fell?” Alfie asks. Tommy lets out a feeble hum. “And let me guess, you haven’t actually been to a doctor to have it looked at? Or made sure it got properly cleaned?”

“I cleaned it,” Tommy mumbles. “Promise I did- I didn’t- mean-“ he trails off and turns his head away, burying his face in the pillow.

“I’m calling a doctor,” Alfie states and climbs out of bed, ignoring Tommy’s quiet ‘no’. The cut is infected, clearly, but it doesn’t seem to have turned into a full blood poisoning yet. But he’s not taking any fucking chances, not with this. Not with Tommy.

He knocks on Polly’s door and musters up all his willpower to then stand in the hallway and wait for it to open. Luckily it only takes a few moments. Not the first time he’s had to drag Polly out of bed due to their mutual and constant struggle to keep her nephew somewhat alive and well.

“What’s happening?” Poll asks the second she opens the door, dressing gown pulled taught around her body and hair disheveled.

“Tommy’s got a fever,” Alfie says and experiences a strange moment of déjà vu. “His arm’s in a right fucking state. Got himself an infected gash. I think he might need a doctor-“

Polly is already ushering him back towards the room.

“I’ll handle this. I know my way around an infected wound better than that hack of a doctor. Just stay with him and I’ll gather some things-“ She glances in through the open door, hissing: “Fucking idiot, is what he is…”

Despite the sharp words, the worry is clear on her face when she turns and hurries down the hallway. 

Alfie returns to Tommy’s bedside, feeling quite useless. He settles for stroking his hair while he waits for Polly to come back.

Polly soon returns with her arms full of bottles, cotton wads, a basin of water and about a million other things Alfie can’t fathom how she’s managed to carry, and he’s quick to stand up and help her set the supplies down on the nightstand.

“Alright,” Polly sighs and rolls her sleeves up, eyes sharp as she looks from her unresponsive nephew to Alfie. “You hold him, this is going to hurt like hell.”

Alfie ends up seated with Tommy halfway pulled into his lap, with the infected arm stretched out and supported by his knee. He tries to not look too closely. He’s never been squeamish, but it’s different when it comes to Tommy. Always been.

Polly drenches a wad of cotton in some liquid that smells vaguely like hay and a lot like strong booze, grabs Tommy’s wrist and says: “Remember that you brought this on yourself.” She glances at Alfie. “You got him?” 

Alfie grunts and tightens the grip on Tommy’s arm. Tommy winces and his eyelashes flutter. And when Polly begins cleaning the wound, he pitches forward and lets out a bloodcurdling scream.

Alfie steels himself for what promises to be a hellish few minutes, and holds him tighter.

The following half hour or so -fucking impossible to tell- is equal parts chaotic and unpleasant. Tommy squirms and whines throughout the entire thing, switching not only between languages but between cursing them both, and moments later sob brokenly into Alfie’s shirt and cling to him for comfort. The ruckus succeeds in waking the rest of the house up of course; worried faces appear in the doorway, but disappear just as quickly when both Polly and Alfie snap at them to leave. Even Finn is up at some point, Alfie is certain he sees him for a brief moment before another adult comes to usher him back to bed.

Ten minutes -half an hour, or an absolute eternity later Alfie has absolutely no clue- Polly finally straightens up and reaches for a clean roll of gauze.

“There we go, that’s what not taking basic fucking measures to clean a wound will get you, remember that Thomas,” she says brusquely, but her eyes are soft when she looks at Tommy who has fallen limply against Alfie’s lap, drawing shuddering breaths. Alfie gently wipes away the tears that have run along the curve of his cheekbone while Polly wraps the now clean cut with gauze. And he doesn’t miss the way she lingers, squeezing Tommy’s hand gently, before she gets to her feet.

“He should be alright. The fever will break soon, hopefully, now when that’s taken care of.” She nods towards the arm. “But keep an eye on him, make sure it doesn’t start rising again.”

She gathers the supplies in her arms again, brushing an unruly lock of hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You’ll be alright from here?”

Alfie grunts in response.

She closes the door on her way out and then he’s alone with Tommy again. He sets about freeing him from the clothes, soaked thorough with sweat as they were. It’s not the easiest thing in the world considering Tommy is completely limp on the mattress. Tommy has stolen -or ‘borrowed permanently-’ several of Alfie’s larger shirts by now, so he finds him one of those and gets him dressed. He remains just as unresponsive through this procedure, but when Alfie can finally tuck him back in under the covers, he comes to again, blinking sluggishly up at the ceiling before fastening his gaze on Alfie.

“Hey, love,” Alfie says softly, lying down next to him and stroking his cheek. “You did really good. All done now.”

Tommy nods slowly. His head fall to the side, resting heavily against the pillow. Alfie strokes his hair. It’s damp from sweat and the fever is still burning under his skin.

“How am I gonna get you to start taking care of yourself?” he sighs. To himself, mostly. “And if you’re not gonna do that, the least you can do is fucking tell me when you’ve… torn your fucking arm to shreds.”

Tommy glances up at him through tear drenched lashes. “Are you angry?”

The question sounds utterly sincere and Alfie guiltily realizes that, yeah, maybe he hasn’t handled this whole thing in the most composed way. And despite the mix of worry and frustration Tommy’s inability to stay out of trouble causes him, it’s still not… right.

 He sighs. “No, I’m not angry.” He pauses, thoughtfully stroking Tommy’s temple. “I know that I… don’t always react in the most calm and composed way when I find out you’ve been hurt. Alright? I can admit that. But I don’t want you to be afraid of telling me about shit like this because you think I might get angry.”

Tommy closes his eyes and relaxes a bit under his hand. He lowers his voice to a whisper.

“So if it would make it easier I promise to… try to behave, in the future” he says. “See I don’t mean to get so heated about stuff like this. It’s just that… I love you, alright? Love you so much that it scares me sometimes. And I just want you to be safe.”

“I’m safe.” Tommy crawls a bit closer, burying his face in the crook of Alfie’s neck, sighing when the contact sooths his burning skin. “I’m with you.” It’s not the kind of thing Tommy would say when he’s all there in the head, Alfie is aware of that. And it’s clear that he isn’t; His voice is slurred and his eyes are still glazed with fever when he opens them, craning his neck to smile faintly at Alfie. “You keep me safe.”

And still, despite knowing that it’s probably the fever talking, Alfie’s throat feels oddly thick. He tries to clear it.

“Well, I do my best, love.”

_One day, it won’t be enough._

He brushes that thought away, wraps his arms around Tommy and reminds himself that today it was enough. And he’ll have to settle for that.

 

_-Four-_

When he hears the knock on their front door, Alfie wakes up from his nap on the sofa and instantly knows two things: one, Tommy has forgotten his key. Again. Because he’s the only person who knocks in that particular way (as if the locked door is some kind of personal offence to him). And two, it’s pouring down with rain outside. 

Both of these things are confirmed when he opens the door to reveal an absolutely soaked Tommy. He looks like a drenched kitten where he stands on the steps leading up to the house, shivering visibly and with the wet coat hanging off his shoulders. He’s in fact shaking so hard that Alfie thinks he can hear his fucking bones rattling, and realizes it’s not entirely his imagination -Tommy’s teeth chatter together between his closed lips

“Bloody hell, Tommy, decided to take a little swim, did you?”

Alfie moves aside to let him in. A moment later the rainwater is creating a puddle on his hallway floor, staining the wood.

“It started raining,” Tommy says through those chattering teeth, stepping onto the rug instead to presumably save the floors in an usually considerate gesture. Alfie begins tugging off the soaked coat.

“Oh, you don’t say? Seems more like you threw yourself into the Thames, by the looks of things,” he grunts and hangs the coat up instead of just discarding it on the floor, which was his first instinct. Tommy firmly dislikes having his clothes handled with such negligence.

“It started raining a lot,” Tommy offers instead and moves to untie his shoelaces. Judging by the way his hands are trembling that’s a mission doomed to fail, so Alfie crouches down to help him. There are no comments from Tommy on the matter, instead he simply puts a hand on his shoulder and lets Alfie help him. The hand chills him, even through his shirt and Alfie shakes his head. Silly boy. Bound to get fucking pneumonia now, isn’t he? And Alfie will have to spend every second of the coming days worrying, listening to every single little sniffle and constantly wonder if Tommy isn’t a bit warmer than usual… The kind of prize he has to pay to have this man in his life: the constant fear that he’ll eventually get himself killed… And with that thought, he pulls off Tommy’s second boot, straightens up and ushers him towards the staircase.

“Go on, let’s get you upstairs and into some warm clothes before you catch your fucking death.”

Tommy mutters something under his breath about being coddled, but willingly lets himself be led upstairs.

Once there, Alfie efficiently removes the rest of Tommy’s wet clothes -a task he can do without even thinking at this point, so instead he uses his mental energy to mutter various disapproving comments to Tommy, making it clear just how lethal it can be, getting cold like this.

“-See you’re like the opposite of a seal, Tommy. Seals, right, they’ve got this layer of fat-“ He tugs off a shirtsleeve that is plastered against Tommy’s arm- “All under their skin, yeah? And sure they’ve got a good coat, too, but the fat’s important-“ Tommy tries to help along with the second sleeve, probably afraid Alfie will somehow rip it, but his hands are shaking too hard so Alfie takes care of that too. “This enables them to live in those ice cold waters, doesn’t it- lift your foot, sweetheart, can’t get these off otherwise-“ Tommy steadies himself by putting a hand on Alfie’s shoulder again as Alfie pulls one of the trouser legs off his foot. “But you’ve got none of that, do you? Nah you’re just… skin and bone. Bit of muscle, sure, but fuck that does absolutely nothing to keep anyone warm-“ He tugs the second trouser leg down.  

“Lucky then that I don’t live in the fucking arctic sea,” Tommy mutters surly but lifts his arms so that Alfie can remove his undershirt. Which prompts Alfie to launch into a long speech about how the shitty weather in London could easily compare to the arctic sea, a subject that lasts until he’s gotten every single one of Tommy’s soaked garments off.

Once this is over and done with Alfie opens the closet and begins sifting through contents. When he’s reaches the end of the row without finding what he’s searching for, he turns back to face Tommy. 

“Why don’t you have any jumpers?”

Tommy sniffs a little. He’s clad in his rarely used pajamas, still shivering and looking quite miserable.

“Or any… decent fucking socks,” Alfie mutters and goes to rummage through Tommy’s half of their dresser. Or rather… ‘Tommy’s two thirds’ of their dresser. “Or have you just left them all in Birmingham eh?”

“I don’t need a fucking jumper,” Tommy mutters and wraps his arms around himself, presumably in an attempt to preserve some nonexistent body heat.  

Alfie straightens up and looks him up and down, from the tightly curled toes to his hunched shoulders. Tommy glares, but the effect is somewhat matted by the fact that he’s still visibly trembling and his lips have turned a peculiar shade of blue. Without bothering with a reply, Alfie goes to the closet and pulls out one of his own jumpers, a huge yellow thing knitted in thick yarn, which he can’t quite remember ever buying nor receiving as a gift. Fuck knows how it ended up in his possession. He finds a pair of thick socks and holds the items out for Tommy, who stares at them as if Alfie just handed him a deer carcass.

“I’m not-“

“Just fucking put them on, I’m going to make you some tea,” Alfie grunts. “And if you choose not to, don’t think you can come crawling to me later with those ice cold feet and dig them into my calves. No you’ll be staying all alone on the opposite side of the fucking bed, mark my words-” He stomps out of the bedroom, knowing full well that all of that is a fucking lie, because the mere thought of rejecting Tommy’s need for a warm embrace at night is just absolutely ridiculous. Still, an empty threat is still… a threat.

He makes an entire pot of tea, slicing some bread as well because Tommy has most likely neglected eating today, so then it’s Alfie’s duty to make sure he does.

When muted footsteps approach he looks up from the bread to see Tommy entering the kitchen. It’s a sight alright. The sweater must be larger than Alfie remembers because he’s had to bunch the sleeves up around his hands and the garment overall looks like it could just swallow him whole. The socks seem to be extending far beyond where his toes end. Alfie feels a smile tug at his mouth. 

“Not. A. Word,” Tommy mutters. The sleeves fall down over his hands when he shuffles forward and steals the edge of the bread loaf, still glaring daggers at Alfie. Alfie’s heart aches. It tends to do that when he looks at Tommy. As if it’s so full of all these feelings that it can’t possibly fit them all so it threatens to simply burst.

“For fucks sake wipe that smirk off,” Tommy snaps and steals another piece of bread. Alfie just puts a hand on his back and steers him out of the kitchen towards the living room. With its large fireplace where a warm fire has been crackling all afternoon, it’s a great deal warmer than the rest of the house. Alfie snatches a blanket from the armchair. 

“No more!” Tommy protests when he holds it up.

“You’re warm then?” Silence. “Didn’t fucking think so,” Alfie mutters and wraps it around his shoulders. Then he plops Tommy down on the sofa. “Now you just stay here and focus on getting warm and I’ll be back with some tea in a bit.”

Tommy gives him a look and scoots backwards into the corner of the sofa. Then he shrugs the blanket off and demonstratively pushes it to the opposite side of the cushion and then down onto the floor using his foot. Alfie leaves the room before Tommy can see that he’s smiling.

When he returns to the living room a little while later, now carrying a tray, he finds Tommy on the sofa, curled into a ball with the blanket pulled all the way up over his head. He’s shrunk so far down into the jumper that only his closed eyes are visible, and appears to be rather comfortable. So perhaps the blanket wasn’t such a terrible idea, after all.

Alfie sets down the tray on the table and seats himself right next to his feet, reaching out to rub his back carefully.

“You asleep, love?”

Tommy opens one eye and blears at him momentarily before straightening up and looking mildly embarrassed. But when Alfie opens his arms in an inviting gesture, he shuffles closer and curls himself into his side. And if Alfie lets out an undignified squeak when a cold hand finds its way in under all his layers of clothing to rest on his stomach, well that’s neither here nor there is it? He makes sure Tommy is equipped with a teacup in his free hand before settling heavily against the back of the sofa, resting his hand on top of Tommy’s where it’s slumped against his shoulder. Tommy quietly drinks his tea and Alfie tries not to stare too intently, which proves rather difficult because, well, Tommy makes for quite a sight.

The yellow suits him. It strikes Alfie that he’s never seen him wear a colour like that; it softens him, somehow. Showcases his freckles and the translucency of his skin and goes well with his dark curls. But admittedly, most of all, Alfie just likes that Tommy is wearing his clothes. There’s some kind of deeply rooted protective instinct in him that just _enjoys_ that he gets to provide for him, make sure he’s safe and warm. Tommy usually has to be coaxed into that sort of thing, so it always feels like a bit of a privilege, despite how primal and ridiculous that instinct is in the first place.

Tommy sets the teacup down on the table, pulls the sleeve down over his hand and settles back against Alfie’s chest with a content little sigh.

And Alfie loves him so much that he can’t fucking bear it.

He needs to sit and just bask in that feeling. Tommy’s head becomes heavier, his knees slumping down across Alfie’s lap as he sinks further into his arms.

Alfie leans his chin on top of Tommy’s head. Buries his nose in his hair and whispers the words so quietly that they almost blend together with the crackling from the fire.

“I love you.”

Tommy’s voice comes from somewhere in his shirt.

“Mhm. I love you too.” He huffs out a laugh. “Even though you’ll probably smother me to death with all these blankets, one of these days.” 

 

-Five-

Alfie doesn’t get sick. It’s as simple as that. He could probably count the times he’s even had the slightest cold on one hand. Which means he’s forgotten just how miserable it is, and the current ordeal really comes as a shock: the sore throat, the headache, the way every single fucking crevice of his head seems to be full of fucking mucus.

The breaths rattle as he drags them down into his lungs, and despite lying perfectly still with closed eyes for what feels like an eternity, he’s no closer to falling asleep.

“No fuck, this, I’m moving to the guest room,” he rasps, but makes no effort to move. He needs some time to gather himself before actually doing something about the situation. “I’ll just keep you awake otherwise.” 

“No point, I’ll hear you snoring through the wall,” Tommy mutters. “You’d need to take in at a hotel or something. At least five blocks away.”

“I’m dying, Tommy. Dying. And you mock me?”

“You’re not dying, it’s just a cold.”

Alfie huffs indignantly, but regrets it immediately. Harsh outlets of air are not well received by his throat.

“Well it can’t be good, this,” he says, indicating to how close Tommy is. “You might catch  it too. Always been far more susceptible to these things haven’t you, fragile little thing as you are.”

Tommy yawns and moves yet a bit closer. “Fuck off. Be quiet and try to sleep now.”

Alfie is quiet. For a few minutes at least, as he thinks about how incredibly parched his throat is. It’s becoming impossible to ignore, but it feels equally impossible to get out of bed and do something about it. His limbs are heavy and sore, and his head is even heavier. Feels like he can’t even lift it. The mountain of pillows and his propped up position helps somewhat to ease  the clogged feeling in his nose but is not doing his back any favors, nor is it helping with the pain in his throat.

It gets to the point where he can’t possibly swallow and he gives up.

“Tommy…”

“Mhm.”

“Water.”

“Get it yourself, you have a cold, not two amputated legs.”

“But I’m _sick_.”

Tommy groans and sits up. “You’re a giant child.”

But he does fetch water.

It helps. Not a lot, but a tiny bit. When he’s drained the glass, Alfie closes his eyes and tries to avoid swallowing. His lower back is beginning to get sore from this position, and he’s only been in it for the better part of the evening, having stubbornly spent most of the day at the office before finally admitting defeat and going home to ‘avoid spreading whatever plague he’s contracted to his entire workforce’ as Tommy put it. Tommy didn’t go home, of course, no he came home as late as any other day and seemed honestly surprised that Alfie hadn’t gotten any better during the afternoon.

His back hurts a bit more on the right side so he shifts a bit in an attempt to take some pressure off of it. 

“For fucks sake, Alfie stay still,” Tommy whines.

Alfie can’t muster up the energy to explain the situation but he does try to relax and remain still.

“You know, you don’t _have_ to stay home tomorrow and take care of me,” he mumbles after a while. A muffled snort comes from his side.

“I wasn’t planning to either, it’s just a cold. Sleep now. I’ve heard that’s the best medicine.”

And as if by some miracle, Alfie does eventually manage to fall asleep.

It’s not a very peaceful sleep: His dreams are strange and confusing, and so vivid that it’s hard to know what is real and not. Most of them involve Tommy, as they tend to; Tommy is lost somewhere in a thick fog, or he’s injured, sick, scared… a whole plethora of unpleasant scenarios to choose from. And Alfie can’t move, his body feels cold and oddly numb, and then it’s too hot, and the muscles are just melting off his bones-

At some point during the night he wakes up from a pleasantly cold flannel being placed on his forehead, and to the sound of a soothing hushing. He opens his eyes and sees Tommy sitting there next to him.

He looks scared; it’s written straight across his face, in his too wide eyes, the crease between his eyebrows. But there’s nothing to be afraid of, that much Alfie knows. The fever unpleasant, sure, and yes he does feel incredibly fucking miserable, but it’s not particularly high.

“Alfie?”

“It’s fine, love, nothing to worry about,” he rasps out and pats his knee reassuringly. “Just a bit of a fever.”

Tommy nods, but doesn’t seem wholly convinced. He takes the glass from the nightstand and helps him drink.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” Alfie says once the water has washed away some of the gravel in his throat. Tommy nods again, but doesn’t lay down. Instead he takes the cloth from his forehead, soaking it in the bowl of water he’s holding in his lap, before placing it back. He begins stroking his hair. Alfie’s eyelids are feeling impossibly heavy so he closes them again. The cloth on his forehead is changed several times before he falls asleep again.   

The bedroom is still dark the next time he wakes up, but the sky outside has gone from black to a greyish blue. Tommy is asleep right next to him, sitting awkwardly slumped against all the pillows, and with the bowl of water precariously balanced in his lap, the cloth lodged tightly in his hand. Alfie moves slightly, about to reach out and move the bowl, and Tommy’s eyes instantly snap open. He straightens up, just barely avoiding tipping the bowl, and puts a hand on Alfie’s forehead. The relief is palpable.

“The fever seems to have gone down a bit.”

Alfie hums in agreement, already feeling himself drift off again, “Yeah, it’s way down. Don’t you worry, love. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.

Then he falls asleep.

He has no idea what time it is when he wakes up the third time. But the sun  is spilling in through the curtains, and it’s enough to tell him it’s somewhere between seven and… well, noon.

Tommy is gone from the bed, and Alfie has a feeling that he’s gone from the house all together. At this hour he should reasonably be at the office. That’s all fine, not like Alfie expected him to stay. Tommy is bad enough at taking care of himself when he’s sick, would be a fucking miracle if he could take care of others.

Alfie is still, to put it mildly, feeling like shit. The past night’s headache has faded slightly, but his throat is still sore, and yes it does feel like his entire head is just filled with mucus. His stomach growls angrily, telling him that he’s hungry. But there is absolutely no chance that he’ll be leaving the bed. He’ll just have to lie here and starve until Tommy decides to come home from the office, and then possibly convince him to make some... Well toast is really the only thing Tommy can make that won’t end in absolute disaster.

The glass of water on his nightstand is empty, and his plan is to lie here for a few more minutes and just muster up enough energy to refill it.

He’s got a feeling is that today is going to be a pretty fucking miserable day.

Then he hears noise coming from the kitchen. Not a lot, just this faint clinking sound that he hasn’t paid attention to until now. It takes a while for him to place It, but it’s definitely coming from the kitchen and could potentially be a very quiet and gentle burglar or a hitman who’s decided to make themselves a cuppa before coming upstairs to shoot him. Honestly that option would be preferable to lying here… He considers his options. He could of course go downstairs and do something about the situation, but the thought of getting up and walking down the stairs makes getting shot in the face sound like a pleasant option.

Then a familiar scent travels up the stairs. And suddenly he finds himself being dragged thirty years backwards, and he’s sitting under the kitchen table watching his mother’s long black skirt swirl by as she walks across the kitchen floor, moving between the oven and the workbench…

Alfie decides that he must be having some kind of strange fever dream. That, or the ghost of his mother is downstairs in the kitchen, baking, and out of the two option, the former seems far more likely.

His mother’s ghost isn’t particularly quiet, because now he can hear soft steps coming up the stairs. He clears his throat and attempts to make some kind of sound. A greeting perhaps. Or a question, but all that comes out is a raspy croak. He clears his throat painfully.

“Hello?”

He should probably be getting concerned about the situation right about now, because the bedroom door creaks open. But it’s not his mother’s ghost, or a burglar, or some scorned business rival, although all those options suddenly seem far more reasonable than who is actually standing on the threshold.

“Tommy?”

“Are you still delirious from the fever? I was hoping you’d recognize me.”

Tommy is standing there in the doorway, hair curling at the ends and sticking out in all directions, barefoot and clad in Alfie’s shirt, with a tray in his hands. 

“Stop looking so confused,” he huffs and comes up to the bed, very carefully placing the tray on the bed next to Alfie, moving the teapot and cups to the safer spot on the nightstand. Alfie looks down at the bread on the tray, blinking. It’s pretty wonky looking, and the surface is rather uneven, but judging by the smell it’s definitely a loaf of stolichniy.

He hasn’t smelled proper rye bread like that since…

“You’ve been to the bakery, eh? A proper one.”

Tommy focuses very intently on pouring tea into a cup. “No.”

“Then how-“

“I’ve been practicing.” Tommy still stares at the teacup. “Thought I’d surprise you for our anniversary. Or your birthday. But then I felt that maybe you needed it more today.”

Alfie blinks down at the bread again. He can’t quite connect the dots here. “You’ve been-“

“I know it’s not- it’s not very pretty, but it actually doesn’t taste too bad.” Tommy’s cheeks are bright red and he’s speaking a bit too quickly.

And Alfie, for once in his life, is speechless. Not only that but there’s a lump in his throat for entirely different reasons now and he swallows thickly.

“Go on, sit up,” Tommy mutters and pours a bit of milk into the teacup. He hands it to Alfie once he’s settled against the pillows. 

“You learned… how to bake?” Alfie asks, unable to take all of this in.

“Only this specific thing. But I figured that… if I can run a fucking bookmaking business and successfully detonate a bomb it would be a fucking miracle if I couldn’t learn how to do _one_ useful thing in the kitchen.”  Tommy shrugs and seats himself on the bed. He is still blushing. Alfie would tease him, but he feels as if his heart may actually burst in his chest when he looks at him, and now he has to blink away the tears that suddenly well his eyes. It’s the scent of the stolichniy that does it, probably.

Tommy cuts a slice of the bread, spreads some butter on it and hands it to Alfie. He takes a bite, very aware of the way Tommy is watching him. And just as the scent, it brings him right back. To sitting in mum’s lap in front of the fire, listening to her stories of the old country, and her fairytales. Falling asleep there and being carried to bed, still with the sound of happy voices in his ears…

He’s been quiet for far too long and notices the anxious look on Tommy’s face. He swallows.

“Well I don’t know how you’ve managed, but that’s about the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Tommy’s eyes light up.

“You’re not just saying that? It’s okay if you don’t-“

“Shut up and take a bite,” Alfie says and tears off a piece from his slice. “At this rate, you’ll be making challah come next Rosh Hashanah, just you see. You clearly have a talent.” He gives it to Tommy who accepts it and takes a small bite.

“I tasted it down in the kitchen,” he admits. “I wouldn’t have given it to you if it was too bad.”

Tommy can deny it all he wants but he’s beaming with pride and Alfie decides that being sick and miserable is entirely worth it for the sight. He takes another piece of bread.

“So, for how long do I get to keep you at home today, then?”

Tommy shrugs and breaks his piece into two, popping one of them into his mouth.

“Think they’ll survive without me at the bakery today.”

Alfie decides that commenting on this would be pushing his luck, so instead he just basks in the absolutely surreal feeling of Tommy Shelby willingly postponing any and all business simply to stay at home and dote on him. They sit in silence for a while. Tommy refills the teacups and flips absentmindedly through the paper.

“This was my mum’s recipe,” Alfie says. Tommy looks up.

“I know. I figured.”

“It’s not even in English.”

“I got some help with the translation,” Tommy says and turns his eyes back to the paper, fidgeting with the edge. The sun is shining in through the window, catching in the dark strands of hair and giving them a warm sheen.

“I love you.” Alfie says. Because there’s nothing else left to say right then. Tommy smiles down at the paper. Then he’s rewarded with a  quick glance through those long eyelashes.

“I love you too.” Tommy looks shy. Still does, on occasion, when he says those words. He clears his throat. “Drink your fucking tea before it gets cold.”

_-one-_

Mornings are Alfie’s favorite time of the day. At least this particular kind of morning, when they’ve got nowhere to be and can spend the better part of it either lounging around in bed or sitting by the kitchen table, not doing much good. And it’s taken him a good few months -or really, nearly two years- to ease Tommy into the whole thing. But that just makes it all the better that he finally have begun getting around to Alfie’s way of thinking. Even though he’d never admit it out loud.

It’s one of those good mornings. Outside the window it’s bitingly cold, and the frost has painted the windowpane, but a few pale rays of sunlight are shining into the kitchen and washing it in warm light.

Tommy is sitting opposite him by the kitchen table, wearing that yellow jumper that he’s more or less lived in ever since the first time Alfie forced him into it. He’s pulled the sleeves down over his hands, something that Alfie reckons must be an entirely unconscious move, but that makes it no less precious. He stretches out one leg under the table, propping the foot on Alfie’s knee. Alfie reaches down and warms the icy toes with his palm.

“Where’re your fucking socks?” he mutters without looking up from the  paper.

Tommy makes a noncommittal noise around his teacup.

“Yours got a hole in them,” he says.

That word ‘yours’ is really a question of definition, innit? Just like the jumper Tommy is wearing was once Alfie’s, and the shirt he’s wearing underneath was too, the knitted socks Tommy is now referring to are arguably more Tommy’s than Alfie’s at this point. Not that Alfie minds even a little bit.

“I’ll see if I can mend them. Or maybe knit you a pair.”

“You can’t knit.”

“Never too late to learn, love. Figure that a hobby would be good to have. Could be useful too. I could knit you another jumper.” He scratches his beard and squints down at a particularly blurry picture in the paper. It could be a mop. Could also be a tree. He cocks his head a bit and if he looks at it from the side it looks more like a train. The caption tells him it’s Ford’s new car model, and he wonders if perhaps he needs new glasses…

Tommy huffs out a laugh.

“There’s no way you would have the patience to knit a whole jumper.”

“Oh I pride myself on being very patient.” Alfie flips to the next page. 

“It’s very difficult, you know, knitting.”

“I have quite skilled hands. You of all people should know that,” he says. “You’ll see. Might take some time, but we got plenty of that, don’t we? Yeah. Maybe I could even learn how to make… those-“ he gestures with one hand to move his thoughts along. “Those patterns, you know. Get some more colour in there. Would you be opposed to something with hearts all over it?”

“Tell you what, if you manage to actually knit something, I’ll wear it no matter how it looks.”

Alfie hums. “Good. Got yourself a deal, there, mister Shelby.”

 Tommy is quiet, so Alfie looks up over the edge of his glasses, surprised to see that he’s watching him with soft eyes and one of those smiles that brings out the dimples in his cheeks. He raises both eyebrows.

“Something on your mind, love?”

Tommy shrugs.

“Nothing- just…” he chews his bottom lip and glances down at his hands. Shrugs. “I love you. That’s all.” 

That’s all.

Yeah, it is fucking  _all_ isn’t it?

It’s everything.

“I love you too,” he says. The words feel completely new, suddenly. New, and like the best words he’s ever said.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading (if you got to the end of this). I spent an unimaginable amount of time obsessing over which bread Tommy would make for Alfie- but I settled for a traditional Russian one. I have no sense of priority and this dumb little detail was apparently SUPER important for some reason. Please do share your feelings! (not necessarily related to bread)


End file.
